


i wake and feel the fell of dark, not day

by margaretsreplacement



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Family, Friendship, Healing, Jemma Simmons-centric, Late Night Conversations, Spoilers for 5x14, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 07:44:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14131392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margaretsreplacement/pseuds/margaretsreplacement
Summary: Jemma wants to tell her that she won’t destroy the world, that this will be the time that they break the loop, that with proper time and therapy and lack of world-ending events her and Fitz can mend their friendship, but she can’t. They aren’t facts; facts need solid, indisputable evidence, and that’s just something Jemma doesn’t have right now. Only hope, and no amount of hope is going to erase the red under Daisy’s eyes or fresh scars on her heart.Jemma can't sleep. She's not the only one.





	i wake and feel the fell of dark, not day

**Author's Note:**

> This is me attempting to purge my feelings after the latest episode (that had some amazing moments and acting, but I don't think I've ever had a television episode hurt me so much before), so I'm not sure how coherent it is, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. I originally planned for this to be a Daisy and Jemma piece, but Deke kind of snuck in there last minute because that last scene between him and Jemma was one of my favorite of the whole series and I couldn’t help myself.

The bed is cold. Jemma twists the thought back and forth in her mind as she stares into the black of the room. The darkness is the only reason she can be here, in the small corner of the Lighthouse that her and Fitz have temporarily claimed as their own. She can’t see the sweater draped over the metal chair to her left or the vacant side of the thin mattress that her back is currently pressed to. During the past few hours of pretending to sleep she’s almost managed to convince herself that it’s peaceful, still.

It’s nice to hide for a while, away from the glances of the other agents that range from disgust to cautious to sympathetic. Here she can pretend that she is back at the academy, too anxious for an exam to get to sleep.

Not that she was ever one for test anxiety; more often than not she was up late thinking of new ideas to present to Fitz. Sometimes he was right there brainstorming with her. She wonders what he’s thinking now, tucked away in cell a few levels below her.

Jemma clenches at the blanket and exhales slowly. The only problem is the dark provides a blank canvas for herself to think herself in circles, and quite frankly, Jemma would rather avoid thinking too hard for now—thoughts of whether the bed would be colder with him gone or with him here can wait for another day, another sunrise—so fixates on the facts: cold concrete beneath her feet, a chilly draft from the ventilation system, cool sheets against her fingers. Facts are stable, are sure. No matter how entangled she is in a messy pile of emotions, they always give her something substantial to hold on to.

She takes mental note of her body, something she’d done on Maveth to both ground herself and make sure she was still breathing. Currently, there is a nausea in her stomach that refuses to dissipate. A stinging in her eyes even though she has already cried herself dry. She wouldn’t be surprised if she’s gone and dehydrated herself—a theory the faint pounding in her skull seems to support.

Sleep is something that isn’t coming easily tonight, not that it’s exactly something that Jemma’s looking forward to at the moment (although, with one of her greatest fears rapidly becoming a reality she’s convinced that there’s not much further harm actual nightmares can do), so with a sigh she lifts the scratchy sheet away, laces her boots, and eases away from the bed. A crunch accompanied by a slight pressure beneath her heel causes her to pause on her way to the door, and even in the dark she can make out a faint glint from the marauder brooch Fitz had tossed away carelessly a few days before.

Jemma’s breath hitches and the shadowy walls lean towards her. _You’d point a gun at me?_ Her own voice rattles to the front of her mind, followed by his downtrodden one: _No, but the Doctor would._

She closes her eyes and pushes the surge of panic back. Facts, she reminds herself, focus on the facts. Her mouth is dry, there’s a slight dizziness if she moves too fast, a headache behind her eyes—all symptoms of dehydration. She needs fluids. Destination in mind, she opens her eyes and treads determinedly towards the kitchen.

At three in the morning the Lighthouse halls are empty, not an uncommon sight even with the slight increase in occupants. While the threat of the fear dimension is gone, Jemma finds herself pressed close to the wall and she wishes she had thought to grab her gun. It’s unsettling, but not exactly surprising, to think  of how used she’s gotten to its weight tucked into her waistband over the past few days.

A muffled scream from the control room snags Jemma’s attention as she passes by, and she peers in to see Daisy hunched over one of the monitors with her head buried in her hands. The white from the bandage on her neck is visible through her dark curtain of hair, and Jemma feels bile rise in her throat. _Daisy tied to a table, pleading as the scalpel_ —no. She almost backs out the of the room, certain that Daisy wouldn’t exactly want to see her after everything that’s happened, but Jemma bites back on the thought. Look at the data, her mind prompts. Daisy has a laceration to the neck that may have reopened if she didn’t rest like Jemma had cautioned. If that’s the case, Jemma can help.

As for the emotional pain, well, there’s no solid facts Jemma can rely on when it comes to that.

“Daisy,” she says, taking a few hesitant steps into the room. Daisy lifts her head, lips pressed into a thin line, and while she doesn’t greet her she doesn’t tell her to leave either. Jemma approaches her slowly, eyeing the bandage to see if it has bled through.

“How’s your neck?” She asks with as much warmth as she can, but her voice sounds stilted. “Do you need–”

“It’s fine, Simmons,” Daisy snaps. “That’s not exactly my biggest worry right now.”

Anger slices through the numbness that’s come to settle over Jemma in the past few hours, but exhaustion causes it to quickly deflate and she can’t find it in herself to snap back. She takes a deep breath, feeling the way the air rattles and fills her lungs, then escapes, refusing to take the tightness in her chest with it.

“Sorry,” Daisy says as Jemma moves to leave. “It’s not you. I was just trying to pinpoint Coulson’s location using Hale’s phone, which I know was a long shot but...” she leans back in her seat and gives a bitter laugh. “There aren’t many options here and I guess I thought hacking would give me some sense of normalcy. Didn’t really work, big surprise there.”

Jemma sits tentatively on the edge of the table. “We’ll find him,” she says. “Although I’m not liking are team’s track record for getting kidnapped. You’d think we’d of come up with a better system with how often it’s happened.”

Daisy rolls her eyes. “Like what? Life Alert necklaces that double as homing beacons? I don’t think Coulson is one for accessories. Or May, for that matter.”

“Well maybe for his next arm Fitz can program–” Jemma snaps her mouth close so quickly that her jaw aches, but the damage has already been done. Daisy’s eyes flash.

“Don’t say his name.” Her tone is cold and Jemma finds herself missing the frostiness of her bedroom. It’s only been a few hours—although it feels like enough lifetimes have passed for her to be a proper age to be considered Deke’s grandmother—and already Jemma hates being stuck in the chasm that’s opened up between her best-friend-turned-husband and best-friend-turned-sister.

“Fitz,” she starts, but the words die on her tongue. Fitz what? Did what needed to be done? Was losing himself? Had crossed so far beyond the line that there might be no going back? All true, maybe. Or maybe not; they are so deeply immersed in a gray area that Jemma has a hard time grasping where she stands, much less finding any words that could make things better. “It’s no excuse, but–”

“I know what you’re doing, Simmons. And no offence, but I don’t really want to hear it right now,” Daisy says. She leans her head back so that it hits the back of the chair and rubs at her wrist, although the red marks had disappeared a while ago. “You went a saw him, didn’t you?” The words come out sour, maybe a bit accusatory, and Jemma can see a fatigue in Daisy’s eyes that must reflect her own. 

A thick silence settles on them before Jemma sighs. “Yes,” she says. “Because the last time he was locked up he spent six months alone with the doc—with his mind and trauma and worry. I refuse to leave him alone again.” In all the confusion, that is one thing Jemma knows for certain. She gives Daisy a weak smile. “Maybe if I had been there for him the first time, maybe if I’d been more aware, things could have been different. I could have prevented this.”

Daisy scoffs and shakes her head, the fire in her eyes dialed down to a low simmer. “I don’t blame you, Jemma. Really. Despite everything that’s happened on this twisted day, I understand. I know he needs help and you’re the best one to do that, so I won’t be the one to stand in between you two. Doubt I could even if I wanted to. But you have to understand that what...what he did is something I can’t ever forgive him for.” Daisy’s voice goes soft, and her fingers clenched into fists. Jemma lightly grabs the desk to brace for the quakes she’s afraid are coming, but everything is still except for the flashing of the screens.

“It’s a lot to process,” she offers softly. Daisy laughs, but it sounds forced.

“No kidding,” Daisy says. “I just...I’m so sick of not having any control over anything. I didn’t have much of a say in foster care, terragenesis wasn’t my idea, Hive literally turned me against my family and friends, and now Coulson’s dying and I’m apparently the automatic shoe-in for the face of S.H.I.E.L.D. Oh, and let’s not forget becoming the ‘Destroyer of Worlds’. Got to love that title.” She grimaces, wiping roughly at the tears that have started to make their way down her cheeks. “Coulson already dragged me here. That chip was the one thing I could control, my last safeguard from tearing the world apart. And he just took that away.” The words fade into an angry growl and Daisy gives an agitated shake of her head.

Jemma wants to tell her that she won’t destroy the world, that this will be the time that they break the loop, that with proper time and therapy and lack of world-ending events her and Fitz can mend their friendship, but she can’t. They aren’t facts; facts need solid, indisputable evidence, and that’s just something Jemma doesn’t have right now. Only hope, and no amount of hope is going to erase the red under Daisy’s eyes or fresh scars on her heart.

So Jemma leans forward, moving slowly so that Daisy can pull away if she needs to, and wraps her arms loosely around her neck. “You’re not alone,” she says, wishing the words didn’t sound as inadequate as they felt.

Daisy drapes her arms briefly around her shoulders in return, just long enough to whisper “I know” before she pulls away. “You should go get some rest, Jemma. The last thing I need is another friend breaking.”

The last thing Jemma wants to do is leave her friend alone—and the last thing she wants to do is to return to her empty room—but the tears in Daisy’s eyes and tenseness in her shoulders tells her that she needs some space, so she gives one last smile and takes her leave. “I could say the same for you,” she whispers in the hallway, and she hopes Daisy at least attempts to rest before dawn.

She thinks briefly about checking on Elena and Mack, but decides not to at the risk of waking them up. The elevator sits temptingly as she makes her way back to her room, but Jemma doesn’t think she’ll be able to handle seeing the defeat and self-hatred in Fitz’s eyes so soon after their last encounter.

Deke is leaning against the wall when she reaches her door. His shoulder slips when he sees her, and he fumbles to catch himself.

“Um, hey. Hi. I thought you were in your room” he says once he’s recovered, and the panicked expression on his face combined with his nervous fidgeting is so _Fitz_ that Jemma can’t help but let out a watery laugh. A wide grin settles on Deke’s face at the sound. In hindsight, the relation really is quite obvious.

“What are you doing here so late, Deke? You’re not ill, are you?”

He shrugs. “I just wanted to check on you. Make sure you were okay after all _that,_ ” he gestures vaguely at the ground, and Jemma cringes at the memory of almost vomiting on her grandson. “Also,” Deke continues, “I brought you this.” He tosses her a bottle of water, and Jemma’s attention is once again drawn to the dryness in her throat. She stares at the bottle, disbelief coursing through her body. They really must be related if he is already unintentionally reading her mind.

At her silence, Deke rubs at his neck. “My mom used to give me this warm drink every time I was feeling sick, but I don’t really know what it was. And I probably should use any of the appliances for a while anyway because there, uh, was an incident with Poptarts and the microwave but that doesn't matter. I think there’s also some Zima left, if you would prefer that.”

“This is fine, Deke,” Jemma says, and she means it. In front of her is the proof, the only data point she needs. Deke is her and Fitz’s grandson, evidence that they will once again defy the universe and work towards a solution, together. A reason for them to change the future and remove the weight of the world from their shoulders and give Daisy a chance to be her own person again.

She knows that there’s no proof that they’ll succeed—that this will be the time that they break the loop. Her headache still pounds, fear still clamps around her heart like a vice, but for a moment Jemma ignores the facts and allows herself to believe that everything will be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem of the same name. I literally read the poem in one of my literature classes the day the episode aired so I thought it was fitting. I'm also over on tumbler as margarets-replacement where I'm a master of reblogging!


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